


A Morning Breeze

by shazzado



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Worship, Established Relationship, Loving Sex, M/M, Morning Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:36:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5214650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shazzado/pseuds/shazzado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wakes to a cool, rainy London morning outside and a warm John Watson wrapped around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Morning Breeze

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been reading a lot of Johnlock morning sex, and it's inspired me to write... more Johnlock morning sex. I just love morning sex, okay?

Sherlock wakes slowly to the steady pitter-patter of rain on his window, cracked slightly and welcoming in the quiet thrum of mid-morning London. A soft breeze touches his face and encourages gooseflesh to break out on his arms and shoulders. His nipples peak and brush against the soft cotton of his sheets, the cold a strange contrast to the warm arm wrapped around his chest, reaching upwards toward his shoulder but not quite reaching, instead resting comfortably over his heart. More important than the distant sounds of the outside world are the sounds of the man pressed behind him, snuffling softly in sleep as he presses his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder blade. Without John’s heat, Sherlock would be defenseless and freezing against the damp chill of fall pervading the room. However, with John wrapped around him, Sherlock is content. 

Sherlock stretches slightly. Needing to move but unwilling to disturb his partner, he arches his back against John, the long line of pops as satisfying to his ears as it is to his back as he relishes his first movement in hours. John’s response is unconscious and immediate. He pulls Sherlock closer to him, tightening his hold on Sherlock’s chest, and at the same time pushes his hips toward Sherlock’s arse, managing to keep the two as close as they were when Sherlock was stretching. Sherlock hums his approval at the new position as he feels the growing hardness of John’s cock on his arse begins to match the strength of his own morning erection. Soon, John’s breath shallows and quickens as he awakes in a rather advances state of arousal. 

“Good morning,” John breathes, the words barely a whisper against Sherlock’s back. Sherlock grunts his acknowledgement, his voice rough from disuse and his mind unwilling to break the quiet sanctity of the morning with his words. He would rather lie in silence, listening to the chaos nearly muted beyond the safety of Baker Street and the soft, domestic sounds of John as the last remaining tendrils of sleep slowly release them from its hold. One of the first things he had ever told John, after all, was that sometimes he wouldn’t talk for days on end. John will understand; he always understands Sherlock, in the ways that matter.

The roll of hips behind him only confirms this fact. However aroused John is, Sherlock can tell the push is slightly hesitant, questioning, needing confirmation. Sherlock presses back once more, encouraging John, and is rewarded with a soft exhalation warming his shoulder blade. John kisses the spot, and repositions himself so that he can find Sherlock’s neck with his mouth. John moves his arm slowly, dragging his hand from Sherlock’s heart and trailing to the side so that he can pay attention to the wind-pebbled nipples in front of him. 

Sherlock can feel the heat from his blush lower down his neck and chest, increasing from a pale pink to a dark, rosy hue as John lazily rubs at his nipples. John’s lips kiss Sherlock’s pulse point, the chaste, doting action contrasting the ever-increasing roll of his hips against Sherlock. 

“Turn over, love,” he mutters against Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock nods a reply, biting his lower lip to stop the whine that had nearly escaped at the endearment. As John shifts back to allow Sherlock’s movement, Sherlock rolls onto his back and reaches for John’s hand. He pulls at John until John is over him, taking his other hand and entwining their fingers together. John brushes his thumb back and forth against the back of Sherlock’s, the faint brush of skin against skin as tantalizing in their drowsiness as the roll of John’s hips had been. John lifts Sherlock’s left hand, kisses his wrist until Sherlock emits a soft whimper. Then he entwines their fingers again, lowers their hands down toward their hips, and presses them on the bed. In this position John is touching Sherlock from head to toe, cannot but be touching him, breathing in his scent as Sherlock tries to catch his breath.

“Kiss me,” Sherlock entreats, lifting his head from the pillow and meeting John’s lips. The touch of lips is brief, fleeting, before John pulls back and meets Sherlock’s eyes. There they stay, their stares both impassioned and reflective, until Sherlock’s hips lift without his command, and suddenly they are kissing again. 

Not just kissing, devouring, as though they had been starved of each other during their hibernation. Their joined hands slowly rise from the middle of the bed until they are trapped over Sherlock’s head. Sherlock’s legs spread with the motion of his arms, wrapping around John’s waist as they thrust at each other, the lethargy of waking suddenly gone from their minds and bodies. 

John’s mouth instinctively goes again to Sherlock’s neck, his kisses far less chaste and far more possessive as he sucks and bites, striving to create a mark on the creamy skin. He lets go of Sherlock’s right hand with his left, needing to touch Sherlock, needing to feel him everywhere. His fingers run down Sherlock’s torso, stopping here and there to caress and squeeze, attempting to draw noise from the man beneath him. 

Sherlock is panting, feels underwater, his mind clouded with need. His mind is nothing but _John_ and he cannot tell if that word, that prayer, is bursting from his lips or is simply repeating himself in his mind. Regardless, John seems to understand, tells him he’s there, asks him what he needs. What he needs is John, his mind supplies, and he somehow manages to express this. “Please,” he gasps. “John, please, touch me.”

In any other situation, John, ever the literalist, would have snarkily commented on how he was already touching him. Instead, John grasps his need. Perhaps it is even as acute as his own. “Shh,” he says instead, lifting his hands to Sherlock’s hair, brushing it soothingly, “I will, I will.” His hand tightens in Sherlock’s hair, just the right amount, and Sherlock cannot stop the low groan from sounding. John groans in response, the next thrust of his hips sharp and needy. “God, Sherlock,” he moans, peppering kisses to Sherlock’s jaw, “I need to be inside you. Tell me I can, please, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nods, his motions jerky and feverish. “ _Yes, now_.” 

John’s response is immediate. He fumbles with the nightstand, the scrape of imperfectly made drawers harsh, crude between the needy sighs Sherlock is emitting. Soon, though, he finds the container of lubricant, hastily opening it and spreading it on his fingers. 

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock whines, feeling ignored as time seems to drag on, needing John’s touch more than oxygen. His plea is effective; John’s eyes snap back to Sherlock. Sherlock untangles his legs from John’s body, somewhat unwillingly, and plants his feet on the bed, trying to emphasize what he needs. John immediately he lowers himself on the bed and kisses Sherlock’s inner thighs, his slick fingers temporarily forgotten as he listens to Sherlock pant and moan, feels his hand wrap in John’s hair, not tugging but holding, and even Sherlock’s hold is imploring. John’s kisses near Sherlock’s cock but do not touch. His tongue slowly draws patterns on Sherlock’s hips as it draws moans from Sherlock’s mouth. 

John inches closer and closer to Sherlock’s prick, until Sherlock thinks he may die if it is not touched, until Sherlock knows that touch is inevitable. He swallows the head suddenly, at the same time reaching behind Sherlock’s bollocks and slowly, not pushing but stroking, his fingers move rhythmically up and down from Sherlock’s perineum to his tailbone. Sherlock freezes, all of his muscles tensing at the surprise of the touch. Then, all at once, he melts, his entire body relaxing and accepting of John’s presence. 

John licks circles around Sherlock’s cock, swirls around him, careful with force and pressure, always knowing what is enough to be arousing without bringing Sherlock close. Sherlock gasps, his eyes widen, unseeing, as John slowly enters him with one finger. John continues his ministrations on Sherlock’s cock as Sherlock gets used to the intrusion of his body, varying his technique, always keeping Sherlock guessing. He is utterly enthralled, his own need for release forgotten as Sherlock is surrounding John, inside of John – just as he is around Sherlock, inside of him. 

John starts to move his finger, slowly, tentatively, then increasing in confidence. He plays with Sherlock like a violin, his fingers the bow and Sherlock the instrument, his beautiful music coming in pants and strains, begging for more, _more_. John does not obey, does not add another finger until Sherlock is nearly senseless. 

Sherlock is overcome, nearly comes when John adds another finger. He can feel every movement, every centimeter John moves inside him, but he cannot organize it, cannot predict what is going to happen next. John’s mouth on his prick is just as unpredictable, unpatterned, and he can hear the sounds he makes but he cannot stifle them, cannot even think of subduing them. When he thinks that he can handle the pressure, the pleasure, a third finger is added, and Sherlock is again lost. He is chanting John’s name, pulls on his hair until John leaves his cock and pulls Sherlock’s mouth to his, kissing it quiet. John murmurs soft comforts as he continues the press and push of his fingers. Sherlock cannot focus on the words, but instead grasps on to the calming cadence.

“I think you’re ready, are you ready? Tell me you’re ready,” John mutters, monologues into Sherlock’s open mouth. He slows his fingers, draws back from Sherlock in order to see him properly. As soon as Sherlock comprehends, nods, John is frantic, his needs returning with full force. He takes care to remove his fingers carefully, but Sherlock still hisses at the loss. Desperately, John searches for the lube, shivering at the morning breeze as he finds it, quickly slicking his cock and moaning at _finally_ , some _relief_. He nearly loses himself in it, closing his eyes and sighing, until a nudge from Sherlock brings him back to the matter at hand. Moving back to Sherlock, he takes Sherlock’s legs and pulls them up over his shoulders. Seeing Sherlock so exposed, he cannot help but draw his fingers back into Sherlock’s hole, moaning at the heat, still so tight through all his preparation.

“For god’s sakes, John, if you don’t get in me right now –“ Sherlock starts, the whine of his tone destroying all semblance of chiding or impatience that may have been intended. John still listens, withdrawing his fingers and pressing the head of his cock against Sherlock’s hole. He teases a little, teases both of them, by dragging himself along Sherlock’s edge, up and down as he had earlier with his fingers. Soon, however, he cannot help himself, and instead of trailing back up Sherlock’s hole, he presses in, the hot flesh suddenly engulfing him. He has to pause, stays only an inch or so in, and wills himself _not to come_ , chanting it in his head like a mantra. 

Sherlock is about to cry out, to beg again when John finally moves in him, drawing slowly in and out, in and out, never removing himself completely, but never entering him fully, either. John catches Sherlock’s hands once more, entwining them again as Sherlock is nearly folded in two.

The change in angle has John’s cock brushing against Sherlock’s prostate with each thrust, and to Sherlock the stimulation seems endless, infinite. Their sweat-slicked bodies move against each other easily, and suddenly Sherlock must taste, needs to know what John’s jawline, earlobe, collarbone tastes like. He indulges his fancy, too entranced in John’s reactions to notice how close he is to the edge. 

John speeds his thrusts, unable to endure the tortuously slow movements any longer, regardless of how they make Sherlock shudder and moan around him. He is loath to remove his hands from Sherlock’s, cherishing the innocent gesture of held hands during their lovemaking, but he knows that Sherlock cannot finish like this. Concentrating on the hand rather than his thrusts for a moment, John slowly withdraws his hand. He caresses Sherlock’s leg, still propped on his shoulder, he moves up Sherlock’s arms and down his chest. He carefully pinches his nipples, drawing little puffs of breath and soft cries from his lover. Slowly, he works his way down Sherlock’s stomach, feeling the muscles tense and relax through his thrusts and teasing. 

“I can’t, John, I need…” Sherlock starts, and John wraps his hand around Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock makes a noise, halfway between a squeak and a sigh, that only recharges the dark, crimson lust in John’s veins. He renews his thrusts, hard and fast, hitting Sherlock’s prostate unerringly. In contrast, John’s touch on Sherlock’s cock is light, no longer teasing but reverential. There, in that moment, Sherlock is his idol and John is nothing but devout in his worship.

John circles the head, strokes the velvet skin of Sherlock’s shaft, and Sherlock draws him in to his mouth once more, mindless in his pleasure and unthinking of the stretch of his thighs. He bites John’s lips, sucks in his tongue, cannot get enough of John inside him. He can feel his long-tortured body finally able to find release, and he works toward it, rolling his hips in time with John’s thrusts, silently urging him deeper, harder, faster. 

“I’m, I’m gonna,” Sherlock pants out, breathing too boring, unnecessary, to find all of the words whilst John was inside of him, touching him as he was being touched.

“I know, I know, me too,” John says. Once he starts, he cannot stop, and starts speaking between bouts of kisses and bites. “God, Sherlock, so gorgeous,” he says, licking up the side of Sherlock’s neck. “So tight, so good, _fuck_ ,” as he chews on Sherlock’s bottom lip, his hand in Sherlock’s pulling back up to Sherlock’s head for balance, fingers still intertwined. “Love you, need you so much,” as Sherlock moans beneath him. He can feel Sherlock’s abdominals shaking, his muscles inside nearly pulsing at John’s cock. “Come on, I know you can do it, god, you’re absolutely beautiful when you come. Let me see it, let me see it.”

Sherlock cries out at John’s words. His head snaps back, his eyes shut tightly, and every muscle in his body seems to contract once more as he finds release, coming in wave after wave of pleasure. John, lost in rapture at the picture his lover makes, did not realize entirely how close he was. When Sherlock starts pulsing, his muscles throbbing around him, John cannot keep going. His own orgasm takes him by surprise, white surrounding his vision. He can faintly hear himself calling out Sherlock’s name as he comes inside of him, Sherlock still writhing in ecstasy underneath him. 

Soon they recover, trying to reclaim their breath as they smile at one another. John kisses Sherlock, a sweet, soft brush of lips, silently apologizing as he pulls out of him. He massages Sherlock’s legs as he removes them from his shoulders and frees Sherlock, rolling beside him and inserting his arm under Sherlock’s neck. 

“Mmm,” he hums contentedly as Sherlock rolls on to his side, nestling his nose in the crook of John’s neck.

“It really is,” Sherlock says, finally.

“It really is what?” John asks, perplexed. He hadn’t said anything, had he?

“A good morning.” John cannot see, but feels Sherlock smile into him. John smiles in return.

“Yeah, it really is.”

John reaches with the arm that’s trapped beneath Sherlock and plays with his hair, brushing it out of its morning tangles. The low sounds of the city still play for them out of the window. The rain has stopped, but it’s only a matter of time before it begins again. It is London, after all.


End file.
